


it seems to me

by idekman



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, Fluff, Humour, Love Actually AU, M/M, PTSD, aka my favourite bucky, grumpy bucky, the love actually au you never knew you wanted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4045693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idekman/pseuds/idekman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky wanders off. Steve watches him go, tries to ignore the press of the man’s shoulder blades against a too-tight white t-shirt. Fails. </p><p>‘He seems nice.’</p><p>Sam’s head lifts from where he’s studying a photo frame. The smirk on his face spells trouble. </p><p>‘Trust me,’ he intones. ‘He’s not.’</p><p>-</p><p>The Love Actually AU you never knew you wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this last Christmas and never finished it, but it's been sat on my computer for too long so I figured I'd upload it and maybe inspiration will find me. Who knows.  
> Just in case it's not clear, any dialogue written entirely in italics is spoken in Russian.

‘We have a lot of veterans coming home and struggling to settle in – which is why the IAVA’s services aim to aid and support the VA programme in terms of rehabilitation. We have a number of programmes, particularly focusing on education – your file shows that you’re quite a talented artist, I believe? Now, being a mature student at a college isn’t ideal, admittedly, but it’s important you build a basis of new, transferable skills and enjoy your studies; we have a number of programmes to help you get to college that might interest you.   


‘After returning home, it’s all too easy to fall into a pattern of avoidance – falling out of touch with family, friends, the essential systems of support that exist to help you. The VA will put you in touch with a therapist who you should try and see weekly and there are a number of groups that meet to discuss issues relevant to your experience. The worst thing you can do, Captain Rogers, is isolate yourself from the world around you.’

Steve’s hands are trembling. A fine tremor. The office around him is a little too dark, curtains pulled against the crisp January sun. He looks up at the IAVA representative who’s looking at him expectantly. Looks back down at his hands.

‘Right,’ he starts up slowly. Winces. ‘But I was thinking – what if I moved to _England?’_

-

Steve moves to England.

-

Steve moves to England, even though his therapist tells him it’s a bad idea. His therapist, and the IAVA representative, and, essentially, everyone he knows. Even Sam. _Especially_ Sam.

The man dutifully meets him at the tiny airport anyway, grumbling all the way – mainly because Steve just spent his stopover in London (which, for Steve, equates to spending almost exactly seven hours and thirty-five minutes at the Tate) whilst Sam, whose canoeing business oddly enough doesn't run during the winter months, has been stuck in Falmouth running sales for a tourism company. Steve, frankly, thinks he deserves the stop in London for putting up with Sam’s endless, glitchy Skype calls, where he mostly complained about the mind-numbing boredom of his job whilst Steve was busy being – well. Being shot at in the middle of a desert.

Still. The way Sam throws both arms around Steve’s neck, slapping him heavily on the back – that’s genuine.

He and Sam had met years ago. Basic training – when they were still little shits with buzz cuts who thought they knew everything. When Steve was a skinny kid who could barely carry his pack, who collapsed on runs more often than not, just out of high school and so, _so_ angry at the world – at illness, for taking away his mom. At alcohol, for taking away his dad not long after. Steve had been the tiny kid who really shouldn't have been there and Sam had been the surprisingly well-adjusted twenty year-old who – thank god – had taken pity on him after seeing Steve lose one fight after another.

And then there had been growth spurts and Riley and Peggy and boys and girls and fighting and death. There had been war. And now they’re here. Somehow, _miraculously_ , they’re here.

‘How’s it going?’ Sam asks, finally pulling back. He looks like he’s as amazed to see Steve as Steve is to be here. Neither of them have changed much – Sam still has that tiny scar above his eyebrow from the piece of shrapnel that almost took his eye out, still cuts his hair army regulation short. Steve still wears his dog tags, still keeps his hair a little bit too long and innocently wears clothes that are slightly small, as if he’s forgotten he’s six-two and a hundred and ninety pounds now.

‘Not bad,’ Steve shrugs as they step out of the almost-empty airport. Snow’s thick on the ground and he’s certainly not wearing enough layers, shivering against the cold bite of air whilst Sam chuckles at him.

‘Little chillier than D.C. right now, huh?’

‘You weren’t kidding about the weather,’ Steve mumbles through gritted teeth, pulling his suitcase through a snow bank and almost getting dragged to the floorwhen a wheel gets stuck. Loudly, a kid loitering by a parked car laughs at him. Vindictively, Steve thinks that he looks like he belongs in a textbook from the early nineties, and wonders if Sam would be up for spraying the kid with the grey sludge collected by the pavement as they drive past.

(And alright, maybe he’s a little jet-lagged).

‘No, I was not kidding about the weather. Nor was I kidding about the incomprehensible Cornish accents or the fact that, for most of winter, nothing ever happens here. There’s like – Christmas. And that’s it,’ Sam explains, rambling a little as he gets into the car and persuades the engine to choke into life. The man quirks his head to one side, thumping Steve’s arm until he clicks his seatbelt on – Steve can’t believe he’s forgotten, to be honest. Sam’s driving is just as terrifying in a car as it is in a tank. ‘You know,’ Sam begins musingly, sounding increasingly suspicious as he forgets to put his indicators on and almost drives into a sign post; ‘it’s not too late to go back.’

Steve tries not to sigh too dramatically. He fails.

‘I was hoping we could save the lecture at least until we get to the house,’ he tries. When he glances over to Sam wrestling with a gear stick (in England, almost everyone drives stick shift. Which is possibly why Sam’s driving seems to have gotten _worse._ That duck in the road never saw it coming.) his face is utterly unimpressed. Rubbing a hand across his forehead, Steve tries to find the right words. ‘I just… I couldn’t be in D.C. right now. I needed – I _need_ – to get away.’

‘Nuh-uh. That is exactly what you _don’t_ need. What you _need_ is to readjust into society through routines and regular socialising. What you _need_ is to see your therapist once a week and go to your VA support meetings and maybe try to get a college degree, if that’s what you want. What you _don’t_ need is to hole up in the ass-end of England trying not to think about your feelings.’

Steve opens his mouth. Shuts it.

The issue here is that Sam is the _poster-boy_ for adjusting back into civilian life. The guy went to VA meetings three times a week for two years, still speaks to his therapist over Skype once a fortnight, has foresworn alcohol and every so often can be found extolling the virtues of meditation-based relaxation techniques. Most of his army pension goes towards keeping some guy called Bruce, who sells incense in Truro, in business.

(Steve is also ninety percent sure that Bruce sells Sam a  _shit-load_ of weed, but Sam will neither confirm or deny the fact.)

There are days, of course, where Sam chain smokes forty cigarettes and won’t answer his phone for love nor money. He disappears every April fifteenth for twenty-four hours and won’t tell Steve where he goes, or why. Steve knows, really, that it’s about Riley; about Riley and flying and falling, about being _up there just to watch_. He tries not to push it.

So, obviously, he knows Sam isn’t _perfect._ But it’s pretty damn close and Steve feels like a wreck in comparison – particularly now, where he can feel Sam taking in the dark shadows under his eyes, the new white line of a scar on his knuckle that hadn’t been there the last time they’d seen each other.

When Sam sighs, it’s loud in the car. Someone beeps their horn outside, the sound muffled a little by the car windows.

‘It’s okay man. I get it. Just… You can’t run away forever. You know that, right?’

Steve nods.

‘I know. Just – just give me a few months?’

When Sam slaps a hand down on his arm, it’s a relief. Reassurance. Familiarity.

And also, considering Sam’s extreme lack of finesse when driving with _two_ hands on the wheel, it’s frankly a little scary.

-

The scenery goes past in smudges until Steve’s focus goes and he falls asleep, lulled by the quiet rumble of the car.

Oddly, it’s not the jolt of the car stopping that startles him awake. It’s not even Sam opening and shutting the boot. It’s the way the passenger door’s opened to the sound of babbling, noisy Russian.

For a moment, Steve thinks he must still be dreaming. But when he opens his eyes, swipes a hand over them, the Russian’s still there – still emanating a little brokenly from Sam, fluently from some unseen source. There’s the sound of footsteps – not Sam’s familiar, light gait; it’s heavier, quicker – on gravel, the thud of suitcases being wheeled along. Steve glances over his shoulder, tries to locate the person potentially stealing his luggage, turns back to the open door –

And there’s a face hovering over his.

_‘Sleeping beauty getting up any time soon?’_

Steve blinks.

‘What?’

‘Oh – Steve, that’s Bucky. He’s been looking after the house over the summer. _Bucky, this is Steve. He likes his beauty sleep._ ’

‘Does he speak English?’

‘ _Does he speak Russian?’_

Sam looks, perplexed, between the pair for a moment, before heaving a sigh.

‘No. _Nyet._ Steve, get out the damn car.’

 

Steve can’t help the wave of nostalgia that overwhelms him as soon as he steps into the house.

His grandparents passed away a few years ago, and it’s been a long while since he’s been here – but it’s a sharp thing, the memories. There’s still the chart on the wall where they kept score of his height (the visual reminder of just how tiny he used to be is almost unbelievable), still the hulking aga in the corner of the kitchen and the dated, yellow cupboard doors. He opens one of them, flicks gently at the tatty poster of a tabby cat that his grandmother kept up there.

His throat feels a little tight.

The Russian man – _Bucky_ , his mind supplies – is staring at him warily from the kitchen doorway. Sam’s pottering about, heaving boxes inside and chattering absently, unaware that the two of them aren’t listening to him. For a moment, Steve’s gaze goes over Bucky’s shoulder, past Sam’s head, to the view out the front window. The landscape hasn’t changed, the sea greyer than he remembers, the sun a little duller – he’s used to summers here, blazing heat and sunburnt shoulders and pasties, the pastry flaking apart between his fingers. Spending winter here seems almost – _wrong_.

Bucky’s still staring at him.

‘Hi,’ Steve starts up absently, wringing his hands together. Bucky’s eyes dart towards him at the noise and he nods a little, his smile small and awkward. ‘I – uh. I don’t speak any Russian. Sorry – um. Sorry about that.’

Bucky nods – but his face betrays his utter lack of understanding, head tilting to one side as he watches him. There’s a moment’s sickly hesitation, but eventually Steve manages to cross the space between them in a few loping steps, sticking his hand out and waiting until Bucky tentatively shakes it.

‘Steve. Steve Rogers.’

‘Bucky,’ comes the thickly-accented response, lips curving up into a smile. It’s a good smile, as smiles go. Pretty, even.

‘It’s nice to meet you.’

Bucky pauses, before nodding eagerly, brows pulled together a little.

‘No problem,’ he chirps back, accent so thick Steve can barely make out the words.

‘Ah, no problem, no problem,’ Sam mimics, shaking his head as he slaps a hand down on Bucky’s back. ‘ _What’ve you been doing with those English tapes I got you for your birthday, Barnes? Burning them for fuel?’_

_‘I don’t wanna be learning your ugly-ass language, you fucking Yank_.’

Steve’s always known Sam speaks Russian – in fact, Steve goes with the assumption that Sam has a basic understanding of pretty much every language under the sun. It’s a skill that was massively helpful in the military – and one Steve was always jealous of, his school-boy French barely making a dent against Sam’s fluent Spanish, Italian and now, apparently, Russian. It’s odd to watch the pair converse so fluently – and so closely. They look as if they’ve been friends for years. Probably have been, actually.

Steve can barely get his words out in English these days, let alone Russian. He dares a glance at Bucky – who’s still staring at him curiously, utterly unabashed when Steve meets his gaze and almost immediately glances away.

‘Barnes and I met when I moved here – he was running the sailing business down on the beach. Very competent, and great at the business side of things – but obviously wasn’t so good at speaking to customers. When you said you needed a housekeeper, I initially thought of about five other people who would be good for the job – but none of them said yes, so I asked Bucky,’ Sam explains, as if he’s reading Steve’s mind. Bucky perks up at the sound of his name, then levels a glare at the side of Sam’s head.

‘ _Are you being rude about me, asshole?’_

_‘Yes.’_

_‘Fuck off, you piece of shit. And tell your giant friend if he doesn’t like me he can clean his own fucking toilet.’_

Steve has no idea what Bucky’s saying. It seems sweet enough.

‘Bucky said it’s nice to meet you.’

‘Oh. Um. Tell Bucky I said – uh, the same.’

‘ _S_ _teve says to go fuck yourself.’_

Bucky takes a moment to study Steve. Then he shrugs.

‘ _No he doesn't.’_ There’s a pause, where Bucky’s gaze tracks across the kitchen – whatever he and Sam are talking about, they’ve clearly lost him. _‘I need to take a piss_.’

Bucky wanders off. Steve watches him go, tries to ignore the press of the man’s shoulder blades against a too-tight white t-shirt. Fails.

‘He seems nice.’

Sam’s head lifts from where he’s studying a photo frame. The smirk on his face spells trouble.

‘Trust me,’ he intones. ‘He’s not.’


	2. Chapter 2

It feels wrong to sleep in his grandparents’ room. Eventually he moves into one of the spare rooms; it’s got a bunk bed that’s far too small, the mattress hard and lumpy, the ceiling so close to his head he smacks against it every time he sits up.

(It’s the most normal he’s felt in a long time. Since he got back, even)

Half-asleep, his mind drifts to Bucky. Turns him over in his mind a little. The Russian with an American name. Young. Sweet-looking, even if Sam does insist he’s a total asshole. Got a voice like melted chocolate, if melted chocolate smoked twenty a day.

Steve sleeps. He wakes up screaming.

Same as usual, then.

-

It’s been raining all day and Steve’s been stuck inside, cagey and irritable. He’s pretty sure he can see one of Sam’s training pico’s out on the water, every so often twisting into a capsize – by the way Bucky occasionally pauses by one of the windows and laughs to himself, Steve’s probably right. He’s tempted to go down to the beach to watch. But ever since Sam found out Steve’s been cramming himself into the tiny bunk bed (apparently Bucky’s nosy _and_ a total snitch) he’d been getting lectures about _“finding normality in discomfort”_ and _“inappropriate ways to reintegrate yourself into home life”_. Somehow, he doesn’t think Sam will approve of Steve getting soaking wet and inevitably catching a cold just so he can sit on an empty beach doing shit-all. He can, after all, do shit-all _inside_ , in the warm and dry, and has been very successful in doing just that so far.

He’d dug out a sketch book from the suitcases he still hasn’t properly unpacked – but every time he tries to capture the little pico, darting across the water, the image gets distorted by the rain drops smeared across the window. The picture inevitably ends up a sloppy mess of pencil lines that’s just nightmarish enough to be disconcerting, as if the drawing’s melting across the page, and Steve starts all over again.

He day-dreams the hours away instead, listens to Bucky clean the aga and sing absent phrases of pop songs he must have picked up from the radio Steve likes to turn on when it gets too quiet. He’s got a nice voice, even if One Direction lyrics do end up wildly garbled by Bucky’s accent, and Steve almost feels himself drop off to sleep –

Until the ground’s shaking underneath him and the explosion off to his side is so blisteringly loud it feels as if it came from inside his head, reverberating around his eardrums until all he can hear is a sharp, invasive whine and he feels as if he just concentrated hard enough he could just _breathe_ and –

And Bucky’s stood in the kitchen, eyes wide and horrified. There’s a smashed plate at his feet.

No explosions. No bombs. Just a dropped plate and his muddled, half-asleep brain. 

He stands. Bucky’s still staring at him, frozen – Steve wonders if he’d been screaming. When he tries to speak his throat feels raw, so he supposes so.

‘S-sorry,’ Steve stutters out, finds a breath stuck in his throat and swallows desperately.

Bucky continues to watch him. His eyes are a clear, startling blue. Steve had never really noticed it before. The low, murky light of the kitchen throws shadows across him that shift when he takes a careful step forward, shoes crunching over shards of china – he feels himself involuntarily flinch at the sound and Bucky freezes again, hands raised almost pacifyingly.

‘No problem.’

It’s Bucky’s go-to phrase, his key response at any question directed towards him that he doesn’t understand – which is all of them. He’ll chirp it out and about the house, nod and grin it at Steve when he brings him coffee every lunch time.

He gets the feeling that today, Bucky means it.

‘No problem,’ he repeats, a little softer. The familiarity of it in his odd, heavy accent cuts through the haze and Steve blinks to himself, feels the shake in his hands and the emptiness in his chest recede a little.

 

He heads up to his room and sleeps – for once it’s nightmare-free. When he wakes up it’s dark out, the house quiet and empty.

Bucky left the kitchen light on, which isn’t like him. There’s a sandwich sat on the middle of the kitchen table.

Suddenly, Steve realises, he’s absolutely fucking starving.

 

St. Mawes is quiet and cold. Not cold enough to remind him of home – it’s a fresh chill, not that bone-deep frozen quality to the air that’ll take your fingers if you let it. The clouds are thick; it’ll rain tomorrow.

The hill leading up to Steve’s house is a steep one and in the dark of the winter’s evening Bucky stumbles a little, rushes his fingers over the wall to steady himself. He keeps it up, running fingers over the rough stone of the sea wall. He taps at it with a metal finger too; sometimes he likes to test it, to see if his brain will tell him the same things. Sometimes, when he shuts his eyes, he can almost pretend his left arm is one of flesh and blood – but then it’ll hum or whir a little, in the quiet of Steve’s kitchen when he’s cleaning the sink, and he’ll turn the radio up a bit louder.

(For some reason, he seems to care what Steve might think of his arm. He can’t wear long sleeves and bright yellow marigolds forever – he knows that, logically. He’ll get through Christmas, he thinks, and then he’ll explain.)

There’s a dull, metallic _ping_ as he flicks the wall and he forces himself to carry on, the dim lights of the sailing club guiding his way. It’s busy – always is on a Friday night, especially nearing a holiday, when all the families start to descend on the village. It’s worse in the summer, he thinks, when people stare at him and little kids point and you can barely move in the water for rich people in boats who don’t know what they’re doing. But Christmas – with the lights strung up along the harbour, and the way everyone blusters into the sailing club with red cheeks, peeling off layers and warming themselves by the crackle of the fire –

It’s cliché after cliché and he loves it, no matter how many times he grumbles and groans when Sam forces him into increasingly ridiculous Christmas jumpers. Sometimes he gets them matching ones.

He’s blasted with a wall of heat and the overwhelming smell of mince pies as soon as he wanders into the bar, cloyed with unfamiliar faces. It’s a popular spot, for sure, and he nods to a few familiar faces, sends a scowl to a couple of blokes leering at Nat as she pulls a pint. Thankfully, considering Nat’s just pulled one of them over the bar by the front of his shirt and looks just about ready to murder him, he doesn’t need to get involved.

‘ _Hey, jerkface,_ ’ he greets the barman.

‘ _Hey, asshole_ ,’ Clint shoots back, signing a little lazily as he eyes the men at the bar nastily – they’re wandering off, tails tucked firmly between their legs, and Bucky catches himself hoping the door hits them on their way out. ‘ _The usual?’_

_‘Sure. And one for Sam, too.’_

_‘You still tryn’a get that kid to drink this Russian piss?’_

Bucky narrows his eyes even as he supresses a smile, and there’s a matching, small smirk on Nat’s face even as she signs sharply;

‘ _Don’t think I didn’t see that Barton, you shit.’_

Clint rolls his eyes in mock-annoyance, sliding over Bucky’s two drinks, getting a quick _thank you_ in response.

Bucky’s been here a few years now, and he knows Clint can lip-read – wouldn’t be able to work at the bar if he couldn’t. But Bucky still sat down with Nat and spent hours perfecting every sign, practicing in the mirror over and over. He’s still not fluent, will maybe never be able to keep up with the rapid-fire pace Nat and Clint can spark up when they’re not thinking of comprehensibility for the people around them – but he learned. It’d take a lot for him to learn English – but he’d learn sign language for Clint Barton all over again if he had to.

He’s so used to the quiet of his communication with Clint that he jumps when Sam claps him on the back, taking a drink of the pint sat down on the bar before he even says a word – and quickly proceeds to nearly spit it all out again as Nat crows noisily from her end of the bar.

‘ _Fucking hell, I’d almost forgotten what this shit tastes like,’_ Sam signs as he speaks, rapid-fire – a little less practiced than Bucky but improving every day – shaking his head as he settles on a bar stool, slaps a hand against Clint’s palm and sends Nat his usual shy nod, trying not to grin when she waggles her fingers back at him. Nat’s teasing, and it’s not really fair – but Bucky does _not_ want to be the one explaining Nat and Clint’s dating history to Sam. Hearing the story for himself was traumatising enough.

‘ _Your friend_ ,’ Bucky starts up almost immediately, still signing along out of instinct as he talks to Sam in Russian. It’s a confusing jumble of languages in his head – the English burbling around him, Nat and Clint signing to each other at a mile a minute; it’s almost too much and he has to stop, letting his hands still as he takes a breath. When he carries on, this time his hands are still – but the apologetic look he throws Clint’s way is waved off almost immediately, and Clint greets a customer with a smile. ‘ _Your friend. You didn’t tell me he was…’_ He trails off again, searching for the right words.

‘ _Disarmingly beautiful? Made of sunshine and rainbows?’_

_‘Weird. I was gonna go with weird.’_

He watches Sam narrows his eyes, taking a considering sip of his drink and trying not to scowl against the taste.

‘ _What do you mean – weird?’_

‘ _I dropped a plate today, and he –’_ Bucky pauses, making an expansive, vague gesture with his hands, unsure how to express himself. Sam’s dark eyes follow the movement closely, a frown printed across his expression, and Bucky forces himself to find the right words. ‘ _– he flipped his shit. I think, perhaps, that your friend –’_ in the silence Bucky allows himself, he watches Sam’s expression change; from confused to concerned, maybe a little angry, too. He knows what Bucky’s going to say but he forces himself to finish his sentence anyhow. ‘ _– Your friend, maybe he isn’t as over his battles as you think he is. Or as he thinks he is.’_

‘Shit.’

Bucky doesn’t know many English words, but he knows that one. Sam’s swiping a hand over his forehead and for a moment Bucky allows himself to tune into all the little sounds in the room – some blonde giant who Bucky’s _sure_ he’s met before, talking in a too-loud voice, shouting something about _Thor, God of Sex!_ The long-suffering skinny guy who’s constantly by his side (maybe his brother, maybe his boyfriend, Bucky can’t remember) buries his face in his hands. Some long-forgotten pop star – went by the name of Star Lord, was in some crappy no-hope band called Guardians of the Galaxy, Bucky can’t remember his real name – is blaring out of the television as he says something about One Direction’s tiny pricks to a scandalised-looking Graham Norton.

When he comes back to it, Sam’s looking out of the window, chin resting on his hand, fingers curled around a half-empty glass of beer. The harbour is bright, now, coloured Christmas lights strung up over the sea wall, a wreath decorating the door of the bakery. There’s a sharp wind out tonight, and the boats anchored up bob on the water a little, something hypnotic about the way they move, pale little blurs amongst the consuming black of the water.

‘ _He told me that he was better. That he was getting over the PTSD.’_

Bucky shrugs. Pats a comforting hand – his flesh one; he can’t think there’s anything warm and fuzzy about the metal one – against Sam’s shoulder as the man huffs out a long breath.

He finds it hard to care about Steve. He’s only known the guy a few weeks, anyhow – and sure, he recognised the look on Steve’s face when he came out of whatever war he’d snapped back into in his own head. But Bucky did his time in physical therapy and psychological therapy and, really, any sort of therapy you could think of. It’s not _his_ job to get hurled back into his own PTSD just ‘cause some American idiot doesn’t have the good sense to go see a therapist and get his shit together.

‘ _You’ll keep an eye on him, right? Tell me if anything goes wrong?’_

_‘Uh. Sure.’_

Bucky hates lying to Sam. But there’s not a chance in hell he’s getting sucked into whatever deep and personal problems Steve Rogers has going on.

He’s just gonna go to the house five days a week, clean, hoover, and get out of there. Keep his nose out of Steve’s business.

He’s just gotta keep himself to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on twitter or tumblr. I would love to hear from you and am definitely taking prompts and requests, so if you want to see anything in a fic just hmu! <3


End file.
